


When They Settle 'Neath Your Skin

by ComeAlongPond14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen/Fantasy ish AU: If someone has a descriptive thought about you, the word(s) appear on your wrist and trail up your arms, depending how many thoughts are happening. They’ll linger for an hour or so per thought. If they’re thinking/speaking full sentences, only the adjectival words will show up, meaning you’ll see scattered and incomplete phrases if someone is thinking or talking about you a lot.</p><p>Sherlock attends a prep school where he is considered an oddity by some, a freak by others, or just not to be bothered with. He’s used to “freak,” “creep,” or “arsehole" appearing on his arms...the nicest it gets is when Mike amusedly thinks “funny,” or Greg drily remarks “different.” He was definitely not prepared for the day a transfer student glanced at him across the hallway, and the word “beautiful” blazed across his wrist.</p><p>Title from "Brave" by Sarah Bareilles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When They Settle 'Neath Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I am really sorry this isn't an update on TWAA. You ever have days where you just NEED to write something fluffy as get-out, just to smile? Yeah. I sat down in a coffee shop to write the next chapter, and then I just had to finish this. I've had this in my head ever since I heard "Brave."
> 
> UPDATE: Can anyone advise me on posting podfics to AO3? I recorded this story and I'd love to share it.

_Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do_

_When they settle ‘neath your skin._

_Kept on the inside and no sunlight;_

_Sometimes a shadow wins._

_But I wonder what would happen if you_

_Say what you wanna say,_

_And let the words fall out;_

_Honestly, I wanna see you be brave._

Most days, Sherlock Holmes tried to wait until the last student left his classes before he’d get up and join the crowd of teenagers milling about in the hallways. Although he detested having so many people pressing in around him, the sheer number of them meant he was much less likely to actually catch anyone’s eye, and therefore less likely to experience the bizarre little prickle dancing over the skin of one or both arms, should someone actually give him a second of their attention.

Unfortunately, a second was all it would take, for someone to look into his startlingly pale blue gaze, or recognize his unruly mop of dark hair, and register that it was him. When they did, his skin burned, and he was faced with the usual dilemma: did he tug back the sleeve of his standardized white uniform shirt, and look at the word that would have appeared, in tidy black lettering? Or did he simply ignore the creepy crawling sensation, pretend not to know that someone had thought of him, had labeled him in their mind, and thus quite literally labeled him--because whenever anyone thought a direct description about another person, the word or phrase in their mind became a temporary little tattoo on the flesh of the subject of their musings.

For so many, this was a perfectly acceptable experience. It meant they could know the random compliments of strangers on the pavement, or the approving affirmations of their parents and teachers, or the shallow flattery--or flattering envy, perhaps--of their peers. Or they could hear others’ judgments, and decide whether to correct the supposed flaw in themselves, or to correct that individual.

It was never pleasant for Sherlock. It was never even constructive. Every word staining his arms, beneath the protecting white sleeves, would be along the same vein, words he was used to, words that were flung at him aloud perfectly often, and yet still they felt the need to make themselves known on his skin.

 _Freak. Arsehole. Git. Know-it-all. Bastard. Creepy_ (he didn’t know who had thought that one, but it came up now and then, and he suspected it was a female. Dull). Sometimes he caught snippets of the conversations that accompanied the adjectives emblazoned on his wrists and arms, and they were just as bad. And no one tried to curb their thoughts about him, as he knew they must for other people they dislike. No one liked him enough to be gentle.

Well, perhaps that was unfair to say, he supposed, as Greg Lestrade--a boy a few years older than he was, and far kinder to him than anyone else the school (aside from Molly Hooper, the school nurse. That was a different story)--came bounding out of another classroom, flinging an arm cheerfully over his shoulder.

Sherlock really didn’t know why Greg was so enthusiastic about their friendship, since he seemed to find Sherlock just as off-putting as everyone did. The day they’d met, Sherlock had happened to check his watch halfway through the conversation, and a previously-ignored prickle turned out to be Surreal, stamped neatly beneath his watchband. And every day after that--sometimes with great effort not to lose his temper with Sherlock’s poor social attitude--Greg found ways to make the marks on his arm more bearable, intentional thoughts like _different_ , and _unique_ , and the first time Sherlock had unleashed a torrent of deductions at the older boy, he’d hazarded _bloody brilliant_.

There was a snicker as someone joined them, and a slight burning caused Sherlock to glance down reflexively, where his sleeve had ridden up from the weight of Greg’s arm on the shoulder. The precisely scrawled _fre_ \- was enough for him to know which of his recurring words it was, and therefore which recurring tormentor.

“Sally,” he said in greeting, not bothering to turn around as the smug-faced girl fell in line beside him. She didn’t respond, just kept giggling as the boyfriend of the month caught up to her, trying to tickle her waist. Sherlock kept his eyes down, but he knew Anderson was looking at him, and sure enough--ah. That was new. _Fucker_ appeared on the opposite wrist from freak, and he hadn’t had that one before. “Novel,” he commented, and Anderson’s nasty little sneer was indication enough that he didn’t care if Sherlock was offended by it.

He wasn’t. Why should he be?

As they came around the corner leading toward the cafeteria, Sherlock paused, hearing Miss Hooper’s voice from outside the Headmaster’s office. Like Greg--and perhaps even Mike, another boy in his chemistry class who seemed more intimidated and impressed by him than disgusted--the school’s nurse was one person he could genuinely stand to be around, even if she did have a slightly pitying smile when she saw him. She knew too much about him, and he knew she felt sorry for him.

At the moment, she was standing outside the door, seemingly giving final instructions to an unfamiliar blonde boy. He must be a transfer, given the good quality of his uniform--even used, it was clean, and there were fresh stitches indicating that it had been repaired and re-sold recently. He carried a khaki book bag, not one of the school-issued ones, and he was clutching a ridiculously large pile of books, hinting that he hadn’t gotten to access his locker yet.

Sherlock paused, torn by the knowledge that everyone who met him found him strange, and if he spoke he could most likely piss anyone off within a moment. But there was something about the boy’s short, broad-shouldered build, and his unruly golden hair, that just...appealed to him. He tried to blank his mind quickly, since he doubted this boy would resist the urge to check his arms when Sherlock’s thoughts appeared there, and it would certainly be awkward if the boy did not appreciate male attention.

Behind him, Greg’s voice broke through. “He’s a newbie, just moved into the dorms last night. Name’s...John something, I don’t recall.” A slight pause, and Sherlock knew what he would say next. “You don’t need to talk to him, Sherlock, it’s alright...”

“I know,” he said, starting to turn his back on the new student. The older boy was right. He didn’t need one more person narrowing their eyes at him, defiantly branding him with their hostile reactions to his words and his thoughts and his feelings, such as they were. His right wrist suddenly prickled, the tender skin just beneath the palm, and his eyes dropped without thinking.

 _Beautiful_.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching, his glasz eyes fixed disbelievingly on the nine little letters, and for a moment, his brain ceased to serve him.

Greg’s voice cut through the white noise roaring in Sherlock’s brain, directed to someone past him. “...Lestrade, pleasure to meet you, mate.”

“Same,” said a new voice, a warm and low voice that made Sherlock want to curl in on himself and disappear, because he did not like people, and he did not like wanting to hear them speak, yet he desperately wanted to hear more now. “I’m John, John Watson.” A pause, both waiting, but he didn’t dare look up, his eyes still fixed on the word blazing on his skin.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” Greg said finally, sounding a little worried. “He’s...”

 _Oh, this again_. Sherlock’s mind snapped back to full-speed, sparing the other boy the discomfort. “I’m probably not someone you want to befriend,” he said drily, forcing himself to look up into the most honest blue eyes he’d ever seen. “Anyone can tell you, I’m a freak.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” came Sally’s voice, and there they were, along with Mike and, _bugger it all_ , Jim had come along. He was older as well, in Greg’s year, and he made Sherlock’s skin crawl--which wasn’t an easy feat. Jim neither seemed to like nor dislike him. He apparently never had any direct thoughts about Sherlock at all. He simply watched everything, and smiled every now and then.

John’s voice was suddenly very close, and he jumped slightly, finding the shorter boy quite near him. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he said, smiling good-naturedly up at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t have a reply to that, though John did not seem bothered. The blonde boy merely continued to smile at him, before turning in response to hearing his name.

Greg had a peculiar look on his face, his eyes darting between John and Sherlock as if curious about something. “Want to join us for lunch?” he offered, jerking his head in the direction the rest of the student population was heading. “We can swing by your locker on the way, drop off all your books.”

John nodded gratefully, awkwardly shifting the bulky stack. “Sounds great, and I’d love to.” As Greg started walking--Sally, Anderson, Mike, and Jim in tow--John paused, glancing back at Sherlock, who was watching him with mild bemusement. “Does that include you?” he asked, and Sherlock was bewildered by the genuine hope he could see in the smaller boy’s eyes. John actually wanted him to come.

He swallowed, absently tugging his sleeve down to conceal the precious letters branded onto his wrist, nodding and following after John.

* * *

Lunch was its own special hell for Sherlock, because aside from Mike and Greg, the student body did not appreciate his presence in their midst. His arms burned from wrist to elbow as he navigated through the masses with his tray, sinking down beside Greg without a word. As usual, the older boy had left him the end of the bench, serving as a wall between the others and Sherlock. Mike sat opposite him, alternately laughing at Sally’s grating jokes, and eyeing Sherlock worriedly.

“Oi, budge over a bit, eh?”

Startled, he dropped his forkful of rapidly cooling mashed potatoes and stared blankly up at John, who stood beside him, grinning. When Sherlock did not move, an apologetic look flashed in his eyes. “Sorry,” he started, looking sheepish. “Are you particular about your seat? I just figured I’d--”

“Watson, oi, come sit on this end,” Sally suddenly called, jerking her head imperiously to indicate the empty space on Greg’s other side, opposite her and Anderson. It would place him next to Jim, who paused his eating to glance over at them, as if curious what would happen.

John glanced down at Sherlock, still looking remorseful. “I’d like to sit by you, if you don’t mind?”

Sherlock heard Sally snort derisively, and he was vaguely aware of the sting on his left inner elbow; most likely, she’d found a word suitable to indicate her dislike of John paying _the freak_ any attention. He sucked in a breath, then let himself smile, meeting John’s gaze as he nodded.

Wordlessly Greg shifted over, though Sherlock felt the tension that rippled through him; he knew that Greg found Jim just as disconcerting as he did. He scooted along the bench, shooting his friend a grateful glance as John sank down beside him, arranging himself. His thigh pressed comfortably against Sherlock’s leg, and he found himself focusing on the heat of the other boy’s body, while fighting to keep his mind empty. He did not want to disgust this boy--and he really didn’t feel like enduring the agony of having homophobic slurs emblazoned on his skin, if John did not happen to return his interest.

Someone suddenly kicked his shin quite hard, and he could not repress the hiss of pain, or the flinch that jerked his body against John’s. The blonde put a steadying hand on his shoulder, glancing at him in surprise and concern.

Across from them, Sally was sneering unapologetically. “Sorry, freak,” she said dismissively, and resumed giggling as Anderson nuzzled her neck like an overgrown puppy. Sherlock scowled at them, but said nothing, resuming poking at his potatoes. He knew Greg was watching him, but he’d long ago given up on trying to soften Sally’s attitude toward Sherlock.

To his right, John’s voice was soft when he spoke, meant only for Sherlock’s ears. “Why do they dislike you so much?”

When Sherlock glanced at him in surprise, the other boy grimaced. “Sorry, I know that’s a bloody awful thing to say, I’m sorry. It’s just--” He glanced up the table, frowning slightly. “--You’re, well, they’re your mates, aren’t they? So why are they such pricks?”

Sherlock snorted, wondering when the others would glance at their arms and see _Prick_ inked there. He doubted they’d realize it was John; they’d likely assume that his constant mental silence had finally broken. But he would never allow his opinion of any of them to slip.

John was still watching him, and he sighed, discarding his fork and propping his chin on his hands. “More like, mutual acquaintances. They certainly don’t like me.” A look to the left assured him that Greg was otherwise engaged, and not listening to their conversation. He huffed out a breath. “Most of the students here find me...unforgivably honest.”

John tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his smoky blue eyes. “‘Honest?’”

A smirk played across the taller boy’s mouth. “Blunt. I...well, I see things.” He’d never had to explain this to someone before. Despite the regularity of his little outbursts of observation, Greg had never asked him “how” he did it, and Mike still seemed to think he was secretly psychic. But there was genuine interest in John’s expression, and he found himself wanting to...well, to show off.

“I observe, and from what I see, I deduce everything. From peoples’ clothing, speech patterns, behaviorisms, possessions...I can illuminate someone’s entire life simply by looking at them.”

John’s eyebrow rose, but there was nothing skeptical about his expression. “Yeah?” He broke into a grin, his eye crinkling adorably with laughter lines. “Go on, then, I can see you wanna prove it. Do me.”

Ignoring the tantalizing innuendo in that statement, Sherlock took a deep breath, scanning the boy beside him swiftly. Then he smiled. “Your father--Afghanistan, or Iraq?”

John’s second eyebrow rose to join the first. “Uh--Afghanistan. How--?”

Sherlock waved a hand, smiling smugly. “Tan line above your wrist--he was just recently ordered home, bringing your family back to the UK. You’re wearing a Black Warrior military watch, clearly well-worn, but a teenager wouldn’t spend his money on a gadget that expensive; it belonged to a soldier, and one who is proud to call you family--if he’s given it to you now that he’s back from active duty. Could have been a brother, I suppose, but it’s an older model, and it’s clearly seen plenty of action. Someone who’s been overseas a long time, then, but still close enough to you that he’d give you his watch upon returning, so I’d wager on father. You’re not an only child; you show instinctive deference to older peers, while maintaining a level of authority indicative of a long-suffering younger brother. I’m guessing you have a frustrating older sibling, one who has shown a predisposition to rebel against the standards of your militant father, further aggravating you. You look up to them, but you can’t really respect them. Your father, on the other hand, is your hero. Your bookbag,” he added, when John made a questioning noise. “Like the watch, it’s a hand-me-down, and while it may not be from active duty, it’s military issue. Do you also want to be a soldier?”

“It’s a possibility,” John said, shrugging. “Christ, Sherlock, that’s....that’s really something.”

His wording did not refer to Sherlock, sparing him a label, and it took him a moment to process what he had heard. “You think so?” he asked, half-smiling.

John’s responding grin was blinding. “Absolutely incredible.”

The bell rang, and in the flurry of motion surrounding him, Sherlock remained seated for a second longer, heart rate accelerating as he felt a small prickle on his wrist, close to where _Beautiful_ was only just beginning to fade. As John got swept up in conversation with Greg, he dared to tug his sleeve back, glancing down at the strong black word that had appeared a few centimeters below _Beautiful_.

 _Brilliant_.

* * *

For one in Sherlock’s life, a friendship felt effortless.

John was in several of his classes that afternoon, and in each, he joined Sherlock in the back row without commenting on the wide berth the other students gave the dark-haired boy. He was clearly an intelligent and outgoing kid, but somehow, he had latched onto Sherlock as a suitable companion.

To Sherlock’s immense surprise, he did not mind in the least. He did notice, however, that John must be guarding his thoughts a little more carefully, because after the first day, no more words appeared on his skin in relation to his conversations with John. The blonde was not shy about calling his skills of observation amazing, but he did not comment on Sherlock himself.

A few weeks after John entered his life, the two boys were walking to lunch when Molly Hooper stepped out of the Nurse’s Office, pausing when she saw them. “Sherlock,” she called out, smiling at him in her usual half-kind, half self-deprecating manner. John gestured to indicate that he’d wait, and Sherlock stopped beside Molly.

“I don’t want to keep you,” she said gently, slanting a meaningful glance toward John. Sherlock’s stomach fluttered; he did not know how, but Molly always seemed to just _know_. When he blushed, faintly, she chuckled, nudging his arm affectionately. “I just wanted to ask...well.” There was a flash of apology in her eyes, his only warning. “I wondered how your scar is healing.”

Weariness flickered through Sherlock, and he instinctively glanced over at John--and felt his heart drop a little, because it was clear the blonde boy had heard Molly’s question, judging from the guilty glance he shot at Sherlock, and the way he shuffled a few feet away, trying to give them more privacy. No prickle on his skin, though; perhaps John did not jump to a conclusion. Perhaps he would have the decency to pretend he had not heard, and leave Sherlock’s secrets alone.

He pasted on a quick smile for Molly’s sake, relieved when she apparently bought it. “Yes,” he said, infusing his tone with sincerity he did not feel. “It’s doing fine. Thanks, Mol--Miss Hooper.”

Her eyes softened, and she patted his shoulder. “Stop by anytime, Sherlock.” At his nod, she turned and disappeared back into her office.

He did not speak as he rejoined John, and the blonde merely gave him a cheery grin as they went to lunch, neither boy mentioning the elephant that now seemed to be trailing after them.

It wasn’t until after school that it came up again. Sitting on the bleachers, watching Greg practice with the football team, Sherlock glanced over as John dropped down beside him, his own kit still folded neatly in his bag.

Both boys were silent for several moment, until Sherlock realized that he did not want John to think badly of him...and he did not want to leave him assuming the worst about what he had heard.

Cautiously, managing to keep today’s most recent words (hardly novel, but it stung to even imagine letting John see _Creep_ and _Cunt_ in their current locations just above his elbow), Sherlock tugged up his left sleeve, exposing a small, jagged scar, pink and dull and mostly healed, just above where his wrist watch rested. John’s eyes fell to the scar, then jumped to Sherlock’s face.

He sucked in a breath. “This place was the first time I attended school properly, rather than just studying at home with private tutors. When I arrived here, I developed my reputation rather shockingly quickly--I’d had no idea that other people might not like their every thought being exposed. My tutors were paid to tolerate me. My peers, naturally, had no such incentive.”

He rubbed his right thumb over the scar, cheeks darkening. “The word _freak_ has appeared on my skin over a hundred times in the past year alone. Some days I think I’ll get used to it, that I won’t care, not anymore. And then sometimes it becomes too much to bear.” He licked his lips, his stomach heaving unpleasantly. “Several months ago I lost my temper when it appeared twice in one day, not even an hour apart. I...took a penknife and tried to cut the word out of my skin.”

He heard the sharp little intake of air, and he dropped his eyes, wondering if John would walk away.

A tanned hand appeared in his line of sight, settling over his closed fists. “You shouldn’t let their hateful words get to you,” he said softly. Sherlock dragged his eyes back up, and he found John gazing at him with an unbearable amount of affection in his sapphire eyes. “There are so many good words, too. You should focus on those.”

Sherlock snorted, and for a moment, he forgot the words he’d gotten the first time he’d met John. “No one really thinks particularly nice things about me, I’m afraid. There aren’t many good words appearing on my skin.”

Something shy and endearingly awkward flashed across John’s handsome face. “Sherlock,” he began, and there was a tremor in his voice, and Sherlock thought it was wonderful. John pressed on. “Sherlock, did you see your arm, the day we met?”

There was a long pause, and Sherlock felt like he was tumbling, falling somewhere he’d never imagined before, but he knew it would be soft and warm, and entirely pleasant. He met John’s gaze, and he smiled. Raising one hand, he carefully touched John’s bare wrist with just his fingertip, and he traced the same nine letters that John had given him onto the blonde boy’s skin.

“You’re the only person who’s ever thought such a thing about me,” he said softly. John’s gaze brightened, and he turned his wrist, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own. Lifting the whole arm--ignoring Sherlock’s small gasp--he leaned down, breathing his next words directly against Sherlock’s skin.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, and Sherlock watched in awe as the letters appeared right there, as if John’s very breath was spilling the ink into his flesh.

“Brilliant,” John added, and the word etched itself in, an inch or so above the first.

“Perhaps too honest,” the blonde continued with a sigh of laughter, and Sherlock’s breath hitched as only _Honest_ appeared, just above the others.

John’s gaze slid up, and Sherlock stared at him with raw wanting. Then John jolted, just a little, and looked down in surprise. On his own wrist, set apart from the myriad of rapidly fading compliments and praises he’d amassed that day (Sherlock could make out _Ace_ and _Brill_ , among others), the word _Brave_ had appeared in clear, bold letters.

John looked up at him again, surprise and a question burning in his blue eyes. Sherlock almost smiled, a small, anxious hope bubbling up in his chest. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You...John Watson. You’re the best, and bravest, and kindest person...I’ve ever met.” His gaze dropped self-consciously. “You make me feel right.”

Just below _Brave_ , the word _Right_ scrolled across John’s skin.

He felt a hand cup his face, John’s palm warm and solid against his own typically cool skin as the blonde boy tilted his head back up, making him meet his eyes.

John leaned in, letting Sherlock see the love in his smile before their lips met.

**Author's Note:**

> Update 11/2014: Got some feedback on a few American/British changes, so edits were made. If there are any other errors, let me know!


End file.
